The Memoirs of Magoram Mikree
by Winged Enchantress
Summary: Magoram Mikree - better known as Gorry, Maggie, Crazy Mikree, Mad Mags, and just plain Mags – won the 13th Hunger Games. This is her story. This is her life. These are her Hunger Games.
1. Chapter 1

PART 1 – MY GAMES

Chapter 1:

My earliest memories are of smoke and sweat and salt. The squall had nearly drowned us in our little boat, but we never feared the waves as much as the fire. Ever seaman learns to fear fire. Too much water can drown you, but too much fire will burn you right up.

We didn't return to shore until the fires receded, and then, starved, frightened, half-dead, with nothing but our boat and each other, we started over.

I was the fourth youngest of ten children, all born to the promise that they would live to experience true freedom, which, of course, none of us got to see. Sometimes I thought that there might've been an eleventh child lost in the war, but if there was no one ever told me. Besides my earliest childhood and the big family, my beginning was really quite boring. I was born into a middle class family in District 4. My mother was a seamstress and my father was a businessman and entrepreneur. He, along with my two eldest brothers, who in their time eventually married and had children, bounced back after the failed revolution by building and renting out fishing boats to the downtrodden fishermen. The eldest made fine, sturdy vessels that were a bit expensive even to rent, where as the 2nd eldest then filled the void by making less reliable, but cheaper boats that one could not only rent, but buy. My father was a fairly lucky and generous man. I overheard once that there was speculation that he made it out of the revolution with his entire young family intact because he was some sort of spy for the Capitol. However, no one who knew him would argue that he was entirely harmless now.

Our youngest was newly conceived and I was barely five years old when the war was lost and the Hunger Games began. They didn't call it that then, of course. At its conception, it was quite clearly a very angry person's very angry idea. A clever idea, too. A very deliberate scare tactic. The Capitol, still as raw and bleeding as the rest of us, simply swooped in and told us they were talking a boy and a girl from each district as tribute and had them fight to the death in little more than a big cell. It was televised at the last minute and very poorly and it caused a very big, very angry uproar amongst the wounded districts. They were just a bunch of scared children. There were no survivors that year.

No one expected it to happen again, but it did, and with a little more finesse. The two tributes from each district were still chosen at random, but in less of a 'torn from their beds in the middle of the night' way, and more of a 'you're coming, you have no choice, and there's nothing you can do to stop us' sort of way. The children were thrown together into a small prairie arena that looked like it was constructed just a little less hastily than last year's cell. A few shoddy knives were provided to children who looked a little less scared and a little more broken than the kids the year before. The camerawork that year was still fairly poor, but was better than the 1st year's. The Game barely lasted a day. Again, there were no survivors.

I don't remember much from the first few years. The Capitol commanded that we watch our children die, but they couldn't enforce it very well. It was years before the Capitol pieced their hold on the districts together enough to set up a screen in the square since none of us were spending our hard earned money on televisions until they required it by law.

The advancements came quickly. Possibly because of its televised nature, the annual battle of the tributes quickly became a form of entertainment. There was a survivor the third year, one with some knowledge of nature survival that fought his way through the other tributes and then lingered in the arena. They let him sit there for a day, a week, pondering over him, and then they sent him home. The next year the age range for the tributes was set for children between the ages of 12 and 18 and they announced that whoever won the battle royale could return home a survivor. Not a hero. Never a hero. A Champion, maybe. But not a hero. Not to us.

They also started giving the kids weapon training, hoping to be able to provide them with the tools to inspire some more interesting deaths. It took a few years before they bothered giving the tributes some survival training, but only because spending all the time and effort on the arena that they did, it wasn't worth their while to have the games last only a few days at most. And then the arenas got bigger and more complex.

They started introducing the tributes as well, after a few years, rubbing their identities in our faces just a little more. At first they would just drag them up on stage, like the victims that they were and simply give a name to the face, a face to the name. Steadily, however, the introductions got more important, the kids were cleaned up, making it more entertaining to the people of the Capitol and more of a mockery to the rest of us.

The scare tactic that was the soon to be named 'Hunger Games' was highly effective. It made us angry at first, but being forced to helplessly stand by, so soon after having our communities decimated by the failed rebellion, as the Capitol took our friends, our sibling, and our children, two by two, away to be slaughtered for sport. Make us watch.

It broke us very quickly.

We apologized. We apologized for even thinking of rebelling. We promised we'd never do it again. You may find that weak, and decades down the road, when the Hunger Games had come into being and mutated so drastically as to be painted up and turned into some sort of… well, game – a game with fun and prizes - we'd take back our apologizes. But those first children: The children than entered that arena for the first time, the children that would enter those arenas the first dozen times, two dozen times, three dozen times – that was us. Their faces were the faces of the districts when they entered that arena, when they were pulled and paraded in front of the audiences of the Capitol like the prisoners of war they were. They were all scared and broken. These games would change them. These games would change everything.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

I was 18 and lovely when I was chosen to be the female tribute of District 4 for the 13th Hunger Games. They had been called 'The Punishment' and the 'The Dark Punishment' for a while, ever since the Capitol's history books started calling the time of the rebellion 'The Dark Days,' but it sounded just a little too cheesy to stick. The annual event was officially renamed 'The Hunger Games' for its ten-year anniversary.

The ones who were of the proper age for the reaping (one of the few terms that stuck with the Hunger Games from the beginning to the end) were corralled into a roped-off area in front of the makeshift stage in the square, front and center. The witnesses, i.e. everyone else, were allowed fill in around them as they wished. My poor mother had to suffer through three to four of her children being of age to be called up as tribute since they started. That year, she was down to her last four, although her grandchildren would be of age for the drawing by the time all my siblings were out.

A few years back, about the same time they started cleaning up the tributes before they had them kill each other, each district was assigned their own representative from the Capitol, surrounded by what they called "Peacekeepers" to introduce the Hunger Games. At that point they had already begun the custom of reexplaining why the Hunger Games took place and why they were necessary, it's just that now they were read by someone with a strange accent in funny clothes instead of a threatening law-enforcer. We tried not to pay attention.

The reaping in those days was done with a random number generator. The gimmick of drawing the names from a glass ball would not be applied for another few decades or so. To build suspense, a random assortment of numbers would flash up on the screen that would later be used to broadcast the Games. The numbers would suddenly stop abruptly and then be translated into their corresponding child. Girls always went first. The concept of tesserae would not be introduced until the Hunger Games' 30th anniversary, so all of us children were just as likely to have our name pop up on the big board than anyone else's.

There was quite a loud yelp when my name popped up on the board as all twenty of my relatives with the last name of Mikree made some sort of frightened noise in unison. I saw later, on the recap, that all heads spun to find me, the only Mikree that didn't make a sound, but I didn't notice. I had gone completely dumb, deaf, and blind until the all too purple Capitol man on the stage butchered my name aloud: "Magoram Mikree!" He made me sound like a butter substitute.

As the rope was lifted for me and I stepped into the thin aisle that parted the small sea of kids between the 14 year olds and the 15 year olds, I remember thinking that I had to try to hold it together, reflexively. And when two young boys ran to my side, I remembered why. My two little brothers: they were such sweet boys. Haver was 16 and Lander was 14. Lander was fairer skinned than his brother, and he had just had a growth spurt that summer so they were almost the same height, but Lander still had that little baby face. Haver had a baby face too, with big cheeks and a spray of freckles, but that's beside the point. They had busted through the rope and were shouting on both sides of me. Lander had a hand full of my dress. I remember that dress. The fabric was dark brown with small red and auburn flowers, like forget-me-knots. Both the color and the print were oddities for the region. No one wanted to buy it, which was why mom let me use it for a dress. The fabric was too dark and thick and heavy, but it looked good with my hair. And I had made the dress myself. If the circumstances had been different, I might've tried to hide a smile when I felt the seams pop in Lander's grip. _Silly girl. Looks like your stitches still aren't as good as mom's. Gotta work on that. Gosh, I hope that Bianna's dress is holding up if mine if falling apart like this._

They were crying, which was almost flattering. I hadn't seen them cry in years. That helped. "You can't go!" They took turns begging me. "No, Mags! Wait!" "You can't!" "Maybe I can-"

"That's very kind of you." I cut them off in a quick, pert tone, my voice cracking slightly, making them shut-up as we all stopped in our tracks. They were quiet and abashed with tears gathering under their chin. Haver's little teenage mustache was red while the flop of sun-bleached hair on his head was very blond. I always thought that looked funny.

I gave them the smallest of smiles, which I knew must've looked hopeless, but it was the best I could do at the moment. Haver's funny beard helped. "But boys can't volunteer for girls," I said finally. They didn't wipe their tears. Poor boys. We had shared a room for years, all in the same bed, piled up in the nursery while the elders moved out and the beds were redistributed to the oldest one by one. I had taught them to sail and fish, despite it not being my job. How to gut. How to clean, even though it was taught in school. Fought for them to get their fair share of food. I was like a second mother to them, them and our baby sister. I didn't need to tell them that there was no way that we'd ask Bianna to volunteer for me, because we weren't and there was no need to say it. We all understood. We actually all turned our heads to look for her. She was standing amongst her friends and some of Landers' friends. They were all looking at us except for her. My poor little girl was staring straight ahead, silent as a mouse, quaking in her oversized boots with tears streaming down her face. Aw, dear, little girl. Seeing her like that was almost as bad as having her name be called because then I could've ran up and saved her. The way it was, she'd watch me fight for my life in the arena and always feel like she could've saved me, but was too much of a coward. It wasn't true, of course. There's no way she could've saved me or that I would've allowed her to try, but she didn't know that, yet. No one ever blamed her, though. She was only twelve, and she'd see the arena herself one day.

I took the stairs up onto the stage one step at a time and made it to the top despite how weak my limbs felt. My boots clunked as they walked. My boots were oversized, too. That made me smile. Funny how, when you're terrified, anything that doesn't relate to why you're terrified seems to make you smile. I had to hold it together. Not because I thought the other tributes would see this later and take it as a weakness. No. No one really thought like that back then, and if they did it was by accident, when the desperate desire to survive started to kick in. We didn't have strategies back then. Everyone that got up on that stage knew exactly what they were and what was expected of them and they dealt with that reality however their personality called for. Some showed anger, many showed fear or despair, and some, like me, held it together as best they could for the ones they cared about who were watching.

Up on stage I joined the Peacekeepers; the way too purple guy who smelled of something very much resembling urine; the Mayor, her husband, and their small, way adorable little girl; Sheet Brilcrist (23), our District's one previous victor who had very little hair, a huge mouth that he never opened, and who always looked like he hated the world; and our creepy Gamemaker. In those days, Gamemakers weren't just the people who rigged the arena. It was the title given to anyone whose role was to help make the Games more entertaining, since that was quickly becoming to whole point of the Games. Our Gamemaker, by the name of Jarvis Barmiller, who was especially memorable because the moment he arrived for the 10th Hunger Games, we started placing bets on how long it would take before we'd catch him sniffing and tasting the tributes, since that's what he always looked like he was restraining himself from doing. His frame was weak, his shoulders were hunched, he breathed too heavy and he always wore a very stupid hat for the occasion. He, along with his counterparts assigned to the other districts, were placed to examine, question, and advise us in the hopes of talking us into doing something really thrilling. It was a great relief when the previous tributes, who were always carted along with the new ones, started stepping in to advise their successors themselves. A decision that was never officially made, but was never argued. So Jarvis was leering at me, licking his chops, as I straightened myself up on my assigned spot on the stage.

To be honest, I totally missed the announcing of the male tribute. I was so focused on holding it together and making this look easy for my family, trying not to look for them in the audience, that I didn't even realize the male tribute had been called until I felt the vibrations in the stage as he walked up next to me.

It caused a little break in my reserve. Damn hole in my net, it was Del Downy.

The only guy in my class I ever had a decent crush on was going into the arena with me. Not that me liking him was big news. The guy was as hot as black sand in midsummer. Every girl with eyes had a crush on him. I got over him when I realized he didn't care I existed, but that didn't make him any less physically attractive. _Oh, this is going to cause some broken hearts._

I looked back to the crowd as the mayor began reading off the Treaty of Treason, which almost all of us have memorized from start to finish, just in time to see Del's two little brothers sink back into the crowd. I stopped being flustered immediately. One of the other reasons, besides him being really, really pretty, that I liked Del was because he was so good to his brothers. Their ages lined up with my two youngest siblings and our parents were good friends so I did get to see them enough to know that they were very close. They had so much fun together. I could hear them laughing in my head, see them playing, rough-housing as boys did and it made me feel more despair than Del's presence next to me. Poor boys. I was going to have to kill their brother.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

It would be two more years before the Capitol let families say good-bye to their doomed children, siblings, friends, although they would phrase it as 'saying good luck'. Allowing the tributes some closure, they learned, helped them perform better in the arena, and that's all that the Capitol wanted. Better performances always got better ratings.

It would also be a few years until the tributes took different trains to the Capitol. At the time, we simply rode different compartments. They were big compartments, with our own beds, living quarters, dining area, all in the usual Capitol style, which at the time seemed to be having as many things in one shade of some unnatural, neon color as possible. Our cabin was electric blue from the ceiling to the silverware, and I suddenly understood Mr. Way-Too-Purple's fashion inspiration. Despite how the color hurt my eyes, it was still filled with some of the fanciest things I'd ever seen. I'd seen some nice dresses and I'd seen some nice wood work, but never nice lampshades and cutlery and plates. Definitely never nice plates. Having many small children around meant we weren't allowed delicate, fragile things, which usually is what most fancy things are. I suddenly felt older and empowered. _Check me out. I get to drink from a glass cup._ A small joy, but anything helped.

Mr. Purple and Jarvis guided us into the train, and Sheet and two guys with big guns brought up the rear. Sheet instantly looked like he was going to be sick and locked himself in one of the bathrooms. Mr. Purple was on some sort of hand radio and Jarvis was trying to keep from salivating down his shirt. We were looking each other up and down when the train lurched to life and he stumbled and lost his hat, revealing that he did not, in fact, have a bald spot like everyone guessed he had. I was pleased to note that, despite the fact that neither Del, nor I, had ever been on a train since transportation between the Districts was strictly forbidden, our sea legs were more than suitable to keep us perfectly balanced and on our feet when the train started. It gave me enough courage to finally say something to him. "Do we sit?"

Our eyes met for the first time in what might've been years and I hoped that all he saw in my face was the question I had just asked, not fear, sadness, remorse, hope, pity, anger, infatuation, nothing, just a casual seeking of opinion. I was pretty sure that Del didn't care about me enough to bother expressing some sort of meaningful feeling for me to read. He just saw a couch and sat down on it. I followed and sat part way away on the couch. Not the whole way away. I wasn't scared of the guy and he had no reason to be scared of me. He sat at an arm. I sat in the middle.

There was no awkward silence because Jarvis immediately pulled over one of the studded table chairs and sat right down in front of us. I was sensing there was going to be some awkward talking instead. I could feel the blue leather of the couch groan as Del shifted into the arm.

Jarvis pointed to us in turn. "Adel?"

"Yeah." It was very clear from his voice that the last thing Del wanted was for Jarvis to be memorizing his name.

"Margoram?" He pointed at me. I was surprised to see that although his voice and body language initially suggested that he would need to be wiping foam off his lips every twelve seconds or so, there wasn't even spittle.

"Magoram," I corrected.

"Sounds like a Jelly." His thin mouth quirked out into a smirk.

"That would be marmalade," I countered.

"Naw, you sound like that other spread."

"I believe you're thinking of Margarine."

"That's not Jelly?"

"No, that's more like butter."

"Aw," he gave a disappointed sigh and threw himself back in the chair. "A jelly would've been better. Than I could've come up with some sweet pick-up line."

I'm fairly certain that both Del and I had the same contorted expression on our faces. Him because everything he thought about Jarvis was just proven true, and me because I suddenly realized that the man was actually not as old as I originally thought he was. His figure that looked so frail and weak, now with his shoulders thrown back looked long and lean. The huskiness in his voice I suddenly heard as a dangerous purr. His clothes were high quality, although he wore them loose. His shoes were polished. His cheeks were pink, his skin was only minorly wrinkled, his hands were smooth and I recalled that he was not bald, but his hair was in fact dark and thick.

"I'm sorry- Flattered, sir," I threw in quickly, "but I'm afraid you're not my type," was my eventual response.

He pointed at me again with a very long, manicured finger. I had to remember that he was from the Capitol, too. "That's not what you were going to say."

"Yes, it was," I shot back. I had a very distinct feeling that he was trying to assess something about me, mostly from how he jumped and shifted in his seat every time I responded.

"No, it wasn't. You were going to say something else." He spoke very matter-of-factly, but I would not be unnerved. I smiled coyly, while as sweetly as possible, correcting my posture and making sure my hands were folded neatly in my lap. "Perhaps," I replied. "But that response should do."

Our eyes were deadlocked together for another few seconds before Jarvis erupted with laughter. It was a very thick, full laugh and some illogical, hormone driven part of me was attracted to it. I was very happy that this feeling did not last long.

Jarvis was wiping tears from his eyes when he was done, although after one look at me and Del he broke down laughing again. He almost fell out of his chair.

"Okay. Good. Good. We'll work on that." Jarvis' laughter sputtered out as he wiped away the rest of his hysteria was a black handkerchief from his sleeve. "And you," he pointed at Del again who really wasn't looking forward to a conversation. "Can you be a little less defensive and a little more protective?"

"Of what?" Del asked, defensively.

"Of the girl!" Jarvis rocked unsteadily as he stood up. "Makes you look more admirable. People like admirable." He balanced himself with the back of his chair as he looked us over again. "Jam and Dill. You're starting to sound like a sandwich." And with his last snappy remark, he tossed his chair back into the dining table and happily marched off like he was gunning for a promotion.

Jarvis had been out of sight for approximately five seconds before I just had to say it: "I don't know about you, but that sounds like a pretty nasty sandwich."

There was silence. Two, three seconds of it. Then Del laughed, just a tiny chuckle, still suffering aftereffects of Jarvis' presence, but you have no idea how happy it made me to know that I made that boy laugh, even if it was just for a second. For that moment, all the tension was gone and I didn't feel so bad.

Of course, it didn't last all that long. Another two seconds past and we were still sitting on that couch, with nothing to talk about, already bored out of our minds. I'm usually alright with silence, except when I'm in a situation when I think I should be talking and even want to be talking, but I have nothing to talk about, or at least nothing to talk about except 'damn, it's going to suck that at least one of our families is never going to see one of their kid again'. I fidgeted and then mistakenly hop off the couch right when Del was about to say something. I almost throw myself at his feet wanting him to say something. "Yes? Yes? What?"

"It's nothing." He turned away and went back to flipping the shell braided into his necklace up and down. His necklace was woven seagrass, braided in a very specific way so as to identify the family you're from if you ever wash up, dead, on shore one day. It was a tradition in our village, and there were a few along the fishing coast. To receive one was part of a sort of informal coming-of-age ceremony since you were then old enough to fish out in deeper waters were you might actually drown, decompose and come back unrecognizable. It was a bit of a youngster tradition, however, since professional fishermen wore sweaters knit in a specific pattern to identify their dead bodies since sweaters didn't come off as easily as braided necklaces.

I listened to the shell clink quietly against his stubby nails as he flipped it up and down. "I wish I had gotten one of those," my voice was just louder than a whisper. "You know, when I had the chance."

I think he would've just nodded in agreement, but he knew that would've been cruel considering the circumstances. So he thought of something else to say. "Why?"

My voice got a little louder, more thoughtful. "It's symbolic. You've got something to identify you with." I coughed. "Seems kind of important in a war zone," I added quickly.

There was a pause and another clink of the shell on his nail. I think he might've taken the necklace off and given it to me, but that would've been the wrong kind of symbolism. "We'll make you one," he said eventually and he looked right at me when he said it. He didn't say 'maybe we'll make you one' or 'we'll ask if we can make you one,' he said it like he genuinely decided we were going to do it. Then he smirked. "Protective enough for you?"

My own tiny chuckle caught in my throat. "That's fine."

"I mean, nothing against you or anything," he continued. "But I'm really not feeling doing what Jarvis says."

"Well-"

"You know, that and you never really seemed like you needed, you know, protecting anyway." He covered himself quickly. He may not have cared that I existed, but he was not a bad guy. The fact that he cared enough to clarify, and even in a fairly complimentary way, made me very happy. _Damn kid doesn't even have to try._

I sat down next to him, a little closer than before, but in a companionable way. "If you change your mind, you could pretend we were actually friends." I was smiling, but he wasn't smiling back. "It's just-" he started, lowering his hand from his necklace. "I don't think we should be friends, you know?"

My smile drained from my face, but I didn't let myself look upset, just a little sad. I stared at his lowered hands that were no longer fiddling with his necklace. "Is that what you were going to say before I stood up?"

His eyes were still locked on mine, even though I was shying away from meeting them. He was trying to make this clear. "Yeah."

I met his eyes for only a moment. I figured he wasn't trying to hurt me because of any personal reasons. He just didn't want to be responsible for killing anyone he knew, or that his family knew. It was a way of not hurting them. It didn't matter if I got hurt a little in the process. From his perspective, I was probably going to be dead in a few days, anyway.

"Okay." I broke eye contact and agreed with him. After noting how neatly my hands were folded in my lap I stood back up and turned down the long compartment. "I'm going to check out the bedrooms."

I thought I heard him say 'yeah' again as me and my boots clomped through the compartment. And just like that, the boy broke my heart again. _Damn kid doesn't even have to try._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4:

I was enjoying the rumble of my temporary bed on the train with sheets finer and pillows softer than I had ever felt in my life when Jarvis burst into my room. "Come on! Why aren't you schmoozing?"

Bursting. Always bursting. Why does everything Jarvis does have to involve bursting? Bursting into rooms. Bursting out laughing. Bursting into conversations. Bursting with things to say and things to burst all the time. I almost liked him better as a creepy person. I didn't think he'd talk this much, this quickly, this loudly.

I tried to act groggy. "Schmoozing what? Where? Why?"

And he laughed at me again. He jumped down on the end of my bed, bouncing me playfully, which was fun, but I didn't want to admit it. "You," he said while again pointing a very long finger at my face. "You are going to be the nice one."

I wasn't sure whether to be confused or pleased. "Okay."

"I saw you with your brothers. They were your brothers, right? You can be sweet. I want you to make as many friends as possible. I want them all to like you. You'll be their new sister."

I chose confused. "Okay, but I-"

"Knew you could do it. Come on!" He jumped off the bed. His enthusiasm was not contagious; in fact I think he was sapping some of mine. "The tributes from five are on their way and I want you to wave at them out the window. And then, I want you to see if there's anyone else leaning out their windows and say hi to them too." The man practically kicked me out the door and I wondered where the heck he got all that energy. Maybe he had stolen it all from Sheet, who was still locked in the bathroom.

I glanced out the nearest window. My compartment and the two compartments behind me were at the station platform and the rest were hanging off the ends. The train was massive, but the first thought that ran through my head was that if we were going to stop at each and every district, this was going to be a very long train ride.

I hurried to the end of our compartments nearest to the ones behind us for the District 5 tributes and popped open a window. Better to open it now so that it looked like I was looking out the window the whole time and not that I opened it special just for them. I leaned out the window, but not too far since I became very conscious of the guy with the gun standing close behind me. I wouldn't have been able to get very far out of the window, what with the bars over it, but I guess they never took any chances. The station blocked most of my view, but it didn't look like there was much to see in District 5 anyway, and there wasn't. It was dry and hot and the sun was oppressive. The plant life was severely limited and scraggly. The ground was dusty. All there was to see were huge holes in the ground, strange flat-top mountains that really weren't that tall at all, and giant stark white buildings that bizarrely resembled them constructed around a small oasis and hopefully on top of an aquifer. There was no gathering your own food here, except maybe snakes and scorpions. There looked to be some signs of birds of prey, but I wouldn't want to eat those. I had a soft spot for them since I always thought they'd make amusing fishing partners. The stench from the place was terrible.

A small entourage existed the station onto the platform and I leaned on the sill and rested my head on my arms so that maybe I resembled something of a lost dog. They had their Capitol representative: a woman dressed in hot pink from wig to pointy shoe, and their Gamemaker who was decked out in a florescent red suit and a very wide brimmed hat looking hot and exhausted. They didn't have any previous winners and were trailed by two guys with guns dressed the same way as my two guys with guns. The two tributes looked to be in their mid teenage years: between 14 and 16. One looked to be fed a bit better than the other, but they both had pretty diminished frames and looked like they were in desperate need of Vitamin D. The girl was a foot or so shorter than the guy, with dark hair, dark eyes, small nose and obvious back problems. The guy looked like he had back problems too, but more like he had been lifting heavy things the wrong way, as compared with the girl who looked like she had been sitting with terrible posture her whole life. She was a little closer to me, but it was the guy who saw me. I smiled a little broken smile and waved weakly behind the bars of my windows. _Hey, fellow doomed traveler. Welcome to jail cell number one._ He didn't wave back, but I did notice that he was wearing gloves.

Del must've been given instructions to stand somewhat behind me, in view of the window, thus appearing protective, but to not look mean so as not to negatively affect my making friends. Like maybe we were a family. I guess making it seem like I already had one good friend who cared about me enough to look out for me would make me more likeable and help me more easily attract more tribute friends. I liked friends. I was a bit nervous about what Jarvis had in mind about what I do with these friends, but I didn't mind the start, to be honest. These kids needed to see a friendly face, especially when they were walking toward the vehicle that would speed them on their way to their imminent humiliation and demise. I couldn't see anyone else from my window, but I thought I'd made a good first impression.

I turned away from the window when the train started moving again and gave our gunman a happy little sigh. "So do all you Peacekeepers know each other or what?"

He didn't answer and Del left.

By the second day in the train, I could understand why Sheet felt completely and utterly nauseated. It took two days for all the district pick-ups to be made, and then, once we were all the way at District 12, we had to turn around and go all the way back to the Capitol. Sheet had to have made this trip at least five times already, and I didn't know if it was a similar situation on the way back. I was sure the first trip was the worst, though, because then you're stuck with people you hate along with someone from your home town whose going to have to die if you want to live, and you get really bored and fidgety after the first few hours so you really want to talk to someone and you don't want it to be someone that you hate or someone that you're going to have to be prepared to murder. Maybe the Capitol made it a long train ride on purpose. I was about into the murdering spirit by the time it was done, especially with Jarvis waking me up every few hours when we approached a new district.

I tried a few different strategies when greeting the other tributes as they entered the train. I stuck mostly with the loving, but tired look for most of my greetings, since I didn't think that acting happy would be received well, although I tried out acting way too overly excited when trying to get the attention of the District 7 tributes. Del helped out by practically jumping on my back and calling to get the tributes attention. The two tributes were very confused. Del didn't want to do that again, but he told me "you're not the only one who can make friends." He said it in a strangely companionable way, which I almost read as hostile. I had seen the boy at school. He didn't look like he ever had any trouble making friends. As he left the compartment with the window, I had this bizarre feeling that he wanted to steal my friendship strategy and very possibly do it better than me or at least he could sabotage my attempts. And suddenly I felt very threatened.

To be honest, if I hadn't felt like there was a possibility Del was going to destroy me, I probably wouldn't have worked so hard and taken so much initiative to befriend the other tributes. I probably wouldn't have been so determined to win, either. I owe him a lot, and I'm a little sorry that his role in this story is so small and that I can't remember him as well as some of the others. In the end I realized he was never really more to me than a pretty face to direct my juvenile desires onto, no matter what else I told myself. In the end he still died, and I didn't lose any sleep over it.

Meals turned into 'fail to make pleasant conversation while trying to ignore that Jarvis is staring at you' time. Sheet had been in this situation enough that he knew better than to risk the trip to the dining table and continued his prolonged visit to the bathroom. To be honest, I'm not sure if he ate or slept the whole train ride. Mr. Purple squeaked when he attempted to talk over the din, and his cutlery squeaked against the breakable plates, and he deemed Jarvis the only one worth talking to, while possibly failing to notice that Jarvis wasn't paying the least bit of attention to him.

"Jam!" the man hollered across the table at me so abruptly that Mr. Purple's soupspoon when flying up into the air. I had almost spat the entirety of my water out on Jarvis' face, but I had reflexes enough to restrain it, although I'm sure the man deserved several faces full of backwash. The servants were sent into a flurry trying to find the jams they had prepared to tomorrow's breakfast.

Jarvis had been starring right at me when he had his sudden outburst so I could only assume that 'jam' was his new nickname for me.

I patted my mouth with my napkin before responding. "Yes, Jar?"

Jarvis smirked and continued cutting his food into workable pieces. "Say something to Pin."

Following the wave of Jarvis' fork, I assumed he was referring to Mr. Purple who was recovering from his panic over the flying spoon. I threw on a face of girlish pleasure and beamed at Mr. Purple-Pin like I had been waiting for an opportunity to talk to him all day. "I am absolutely fascinated by your eyes. How'd you get them to match your clothes?" The question immediately broke down all of the very limited defenses Mr. Purple-Pin had. "Oh, they're only colored contacts. They're all the rage now."

I egged him on by expressing that I didn't know what contacts were and that he must tell me all about them and this 'rage' he spoke of. I very easily could've kept the man going all day, but Jarvis cut us off after about ten minutes. "Can you always think of something nice to say?"

"Of course I can." I stated simple fact. I prided myself on my abilities find something redeeming about my peers. It made their presence so much more tolerable. At this point, though, it really just came from practice. I barely even thought about it. Thinking can be a hazard sometimes.

"Even if the person is eating better than you and is dressed like a gelatin dessert?" Jarvis pondered.

Purple-Pin was immediately defensive. "I beg your pardon?"

I considered both observations true. Mr. Purple-Pin did look like some sort of fruit confection, and even his side of roasted parsnips looked better than whatever high-protein gruel Del and I were eating, but I didn't let it show. "His food and his color both suit him well."

Purple-Pin thanked me and Jarvis only continued to smirk, making more mental notes. "We'll work on that." He turned to my fellow tribute next. "Del? You try." Del had his head propped up on one hand and was twirling his butter knife in the other, looking bored again. He checked to see if he was serious and Jarvis waited to be amused. "Hey, Pin," Del asked without even turning to look at him. "Why is it that, even though you both come from the Capitol, you and Jarvis are dressed nothing alike?"

Purple-Pin was readjusting his florescent purple cravat with very exaggerated hand movements as he attempted to control how flustered he was after being compared to a dessert. "That's because Mr. Barmiller has no sense of style or taste and has a reckless disregard for modern fashion trends."

"Hey!" Jarvis defended his wardrobe with exaggerated movements of his own. "I'm all about fashion trends. I'm working the post-modern trend angle."

"It looks like a sales rack," Purple-Pin coughed, flittering his hands by his nose as if fanning away a displeasing odor.

"I'm starting a new trend. It'll be all over the Capitol by winter."

"There's already a name for that trend and it's called 'frumpy sales rack'."

I watched the two conduct their petty argument with some confusion until I saw Del extend a fork and impale a dripping piece of Jarvis' steak. He chewed it slowly, mouth closed, not acknowledging me or the others at the table. He swallowed the meat, wiped his mouth and left without a word while our companions continued their debate. I don't know. I had always pegged him nicer. I guess I was wrong.

I wanted to calm their argument, but decided it wasn't necessary. They were only adults on a train. I didn't need their cooperation. The desire to sooth them was there, anyway. Del could fan flames, I learned, and I was a peace keeper. Although, in the present circumstances, being a peace keeper was accompanied by many more negative connotations.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5:

I thought I'd be happy when I finally got off the train, but I wasn't. We were going through a long dark tunnel, when the train suddenly came to a stop. I heard the doors to the compartments before us open one by one. District 1 first, then scuffling noises; not ones from walking shoes, but from struggle. I couldn't see a thing out my window. The door for District 2 opened, struggle. District 3, a quickly muffled scream. Despite how calm my demeanor was, my heart was beating more rapidly than I'd ever felt it before. I thought fainting would be a good next move, but the adrenaline kept me on my feet and sweating. Our door opened. Del was next to me. Sheet had been restrained after the train entered the tunnel and he started frantically scratching at the electric blue walls. He was now whimpering between the two guys with guns, staring out into the darkness we were supposed to walk into. A small shove out the door and there was a bag over my head. I was actually a bit relieved that a bag was what all the fuss was about. I heard Del kicking, and felt it when he connected with my knee. I stumbled. I wanted to kick him back, but I didn't and then I couldn't because someone had a vice grip on my arm. We were led on through the darkness and I could hear another door open. Judging from Sheets whimpers, the tributes probably use to be greeted off the train with something much worse than bags. I never asked.

It would be a few years yet before the Capitol stopped bothering to scare the tributes and simply started treating us as what we were: game pieces, hand-painted games pieces, meaningless on our own, but together part of the most wondrous pass-times in Panem.

When the bag came off, I was in a white room, alone, with people with no faces. I was blinded by the sudden light and extremely disoriented as I was stripped and shoved about, cleaned, pulled, drowned, blow-dried, poked at, shaved, scrubbed, filed, rubbed-down, hair ripped out, skin ripped off. I felt like a plucked chicken by the end of it, and I felt so violated that I swore never to eat chicken again. I thought about resisting, but there were too many of them, surrounding me. Back in those days basic prep for tributes was more of a surgical procedure than a beauty treatment. They didn't change that until years later when the prep teams finally spoke up.

I still had a prep team. Some one had to dress me up. For my year in the Games, the role of styling the tributes was slowly shifting into the professional realm instead of tributes being used as test dummies for rookies. The Capitol took its fashion very seriously, even if their fashion sense was difficult to understand. My prep team consisted of two students (argued up one from last year) from a prestigious Capitol school of modern art and fashion. There was Khelli, a petite young lady who was all peach-colored from gown, to sandals, to big peachy bow; and Cervus, who I most enjoyed starring at because his suit was the same brown as his skin and I had never seen a brown man before, and he had horns. Little horns came out of his forehead and then branched up and around to the top of his head like a very strange, surreal antler hair net. It kind of reminded me of coral. When I was stripped and stinging and I first saw him, I instantly pointed them out and asked if they hurt going in. He smiled and I was pleased and relieved to see that his teeth weren't also brown, but a clean, gleaming white. "Hurt like a trackerjacker." Khelli shuddered and whined at Cervus not to talk about stinging things. She hated pain so much. I liked the two almost instantly, more so than my stylist. Cervus was just a few years my elder, at least. Same as Khelli. They were alive during the rebellion. Maybe they had some lasting memories of it. Cervus might've even been stung by a trackerjacker. It made him somewhat relatable. And anyone who didn't like pain or violence was all right in my book. It was nice meeting some peers who I didn't have to worry about killing.

My stylist, Ouronos, had taken a huge step forward in the advancement of Capitol high fashion. He was striped. Silver and green stripes ran up his loafers, knee-socks, pressed capris, belted tunic, nails, goatee, lips, eyes, eyelashes, eyebrows, eye-shadow, and bizarre bob-cut hair, which I really hoped was a wig, though he seemed hard-core enough that it very well could've been his real hair. Didn't like Ouronos, – don't ask me why- but he was a nice enough middle-aged guy. Thankfully, his design for my big reveal outfit, since we would only go before a live Capitol audience once for our introduction and interviews, wasn't nearly as bad as it could've been. The stylists weren't yet obligated to use a theme from our home districts, although many stylists used that as inspiration. Ouronos walked in, circled me once, then grabbed me by the chin and stared straight into my eyes. I stared back. Staring into green and silver vertically striped irises is a really creepy experience.

He whipped a picture up next to my face, which I couldn't see, dropped me, waved for his assistance and then locked himself in an adjoining room without a word. I was left alone, naked, in a room with too many lights, too confused to move for another minute before the two assistants fluttered back into the room and took a half an hour frantically measuring and remeasuring every inch of me and calling out numbers before vanishing out of the room again. I waited another few minutes to see if they'd come back in. When they didn't, I was more than happy to put my smock back on.

I had been drawing on the floor with fuchsia lip-liner for what I think was two hours before guys with guns accompanied me up an elevator and escorted me to my room in the old Training Center. I say 'old' because that one would only be in use for another decade until the permanent, state-of-the art Training Center would have its grand opening for the Hunger Game's first Quarter Quell.

My rooms weren't really in a Training Center, either. More of a dormitory. The building I was in was only a temporary fix. Although each district had its own floor, it didn't cleverly correspond with the building floors. And while it was suitable enough for meals, maintenance, and prep, our actual pre-games training would be held in a separate building. The Gamemakers were still trying to get use to the fact that they weren't just throwing all the children in jail cells until the Games started anymore.

I was given just enough time in my room to put on one of the electric blue outfits supplied to me, the same electric blue that our train compartment was, before I was forcibly guided to lunch.

Del beat me to the table by about ten seconds so he was able to sit down by the time I got there. Jarvis met us there dressed in his usual high quality frump with a hat that looked like a velvet throw-pillow with a feather sticking out the side. It shook and bobbed with each of his bursting movements. He almost looked funny, although it wouldn't have been mealtime with Jarvis if he didn't start breathing heavily and almost salivating when we entered the room, which was really not funny at all. Mr. Purple-Pin tried to ignore him and greeted me warmly.

It was lunch with just Del, Jarvis, Purple-Pin, Sheet, and, surprisingly, some of our guys with guns who ate in shifts. Our prep teams would be hard at work putting the final touches on our costumes for our interviews, which would take place in the early evening, in time to act as a predinner show. Since the interviews were still new and still of little importance, everyone was more or less asked the same questions, no one had a strategy to share, there were no such things as sponsors to attract, and since we had no real advisors anyway, the time allotted for us to mentally prepare for our interviews was limited to a few hours the day of, and really it was more for the Gamemakers' and bookies' benefit.

I got Mr. Purple-Pin talking and his shrill voice filled the awkward silence while Jarvis watched us eat. His plate had some concoction that smelled of lamb and rosemary and Del and I had more high-protein gruel that really didn't taste as bad as I'm making it sound. I finished before Del and Jarvis immediately sent me away to my room. Someone must've said something distasteful because Sheet soon joined me in the hallway with his usual look of disgust and disdain. By the time I got to my door I spotted Mr. Purple-Pin also fleeing the dining area, his feathers all ruffled.

Judging from the clock on the wall of my very white room whose only saving grace was a reasonably-sized window, I was staring at my ceiling for an hour before Jarvis knocked on my door and let himself into my room, closing the door behind him. I shuddered at the idea of Jarvis alone with me in my room, but I tried not to let it show. I knew there wasn't any way to get rid of him and, to be honest, I wanted to know what kind of advice he'd give.

He leaned back against my door. "He's going to die, you know." Jarvis was watching me out of the corner of his eye as I sat up on my bed.

"What?"

"He won't make it," Jarvis continued, sliding a hand against my wall as he started walking. "He attracts too much attention to himself and he doesn't have it in him."

I shook my head, although knowing it was a possibility. Being pretty gave you nothing but trouble in the Hunger Games. "You don't know that," I sighed. "Adel Downy is a survivor." I was making that up, of course. I didn't know the first thing about Del Downy.

Jarvis changed the subject. "You hate me, right?"

"No," I answered coolly.

"You should," he retorted with a grin. "I'm annoying."

I smiled and faked a suppressed giggle. Adults are too easy to please. They consider their age to automatically qualify them as your natural superior, so all one has to do is agree with them and act gratified.

"And yet you're still polite. Why bother?" He asked as if he always wanted to know.

I took a moment to pick which reason I'd use. "No harm in you liking me, sir."

"Could you kill me?" He got right to the point. Jarvis never was very good at subtly.

I pulled back. "You're harmless, Jarvis."

He pushed forward. "Being polite may be able to keep you alive, but it's not going to make you a winner. If you've got a knife and he's got a knife, who's going to win? Who's going to fight to win?"

I took a deep breath, thinking and watching him out of the corner of my eye, and I wasn't sure if I was surprised that I already knew my answer. "I want to."

"That's my girl." He kissed me on the top of my head like I was his golden ticket to stardom and headed triumphantly towards the door.

I didn't like him being so familiar. "Jarvis!" I called for him. He faced me and continued toward the door walking backwards. "Do you really think I can win?" I asked.

He pointed at me again as he walked. "If you're as good in there as I think you might be, you'll make history."

Making history appealed to me, even if it was in the arena. "You think?"

"Don't worry, Jammy. People around here, they love making history." Jarvis was out the door and for the next half hour until my fitting, I was trying to confirm if I had just decided that I would become a child murderer.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6:

"Can you walk in heels?" was the first thing Khelli asked during prep. I informed her that I could. I had stolen my mother's shoes often enough that I had the basic form of it. After a very nervous and relieved sigh, Khelli gave me some encouraging pointers on how to walk and had me practice by wearing her heels down to the prep room. "Don't worry," she smiled her little nervous smile. "We're going to make you sexah!" Sexy? That was something I had never been before, and it was one of the last things I wanted to be in front of the Capitol, or, at least, that's what I thought I thought at the time.

They stripped me down and washed me up for the second time that day, except this time it got serious. My entire body was covered in a layer of a pale foundation make-up, more make-up than I had ever seen in my life, and every blemish, birthmark and freckle vanished without a trace. Thin white lines were then sketched and smudged all over my body so that the effect almost made me think of sea form gathering on the beach. My eyebrows were plucked into thin, high arches, and faded sea-blue eye shadow and mascara filled the space. My nails were painted the same color with the white foam effect. My arms, legs, hands and face were then splashed with glitter and small flecks of gold splattered paint, all in an outward, radial motion. Ouranos had me staring directly at his striped eyes as the hair was pulled up off my neck and wrapped tightly on top of my head with a scarf except for a few tendrils that they pulled by my face, curled, cut to an appropriate length, and then sprayed that same sea blue and flecked with gold.

Ouranos still had me looking at him and only at him when the dress was slipped on. The fabric felt divine. The dress was held up with thin straps, though I could feel a great deal of fabric hanging off of them, and I was sensing a high leg slit and a bit of a train. It felt snug under my breast, clung to my waist, and flowed out freely over my hips and behind me. Very tall sandals were strapped onto my feet and then they started decking me with gold paint again. Splotches were cleaned up and applied manually and then, without warning, Ouranos broke eye contact with me and spun me around. I barely managed to keep my balance in my heels and was face to face with some sea creature that was trying to size me up, only it was me and not an actual sea creature. I was a mermaid in high-heels, but more importantly I was absolutely gorgeous. It was really about time. I was eighteen, fresh out of puberty. I had breasts. I had hips. I just never really thought that I was capable of showing them off and not looking ridiculous. Clearly I was right. I was not the one who should've been showing off my womanly assets. The Capitol was, and they did a wonderful job. Everything they did made everything else look long: long legs, long torso, long neck. My make up distinctively made me look older, so that I didn't look like I was the right age for the Hunger Games at all. I was in my mid-20s now and I was a hot momma, as we say.

It wasn't until I met my own eyes that I realized that something had been puzzling me in the back of my mind and then I knew what it was. I thought my make-up had been bringing out my eyes, until I realized that my entire ensemble brought out my eyes. In fact, my outfit matched my eyes exactly: sea blue with white veins and gold flecks: My eyes in a nutshell. I giggled like a schoolgirl and then I laughed like a seductress I had been disguised as. Now, like almost everyone else in the Capitol, my outfit matched my eyes. It was an extension of my eyes. I was a walking, giant, sexy eyeball. The dress had the pupil and everything. I was the final say in Capitol high fashion, not that I cared about that sort of thing or anything, not then, anyway. It just felt good to see hard proof that I was capable of being attractive.

"I'll catch everyone's eyes," I snickered and after a moment Cervus started a deep, rumbling laugh. Khelli joined in once she got the joke with her high-pitched squeals of joy. Ouronos said nothing, only continued fixing the paint on my back.

Walking in heels that tall was a little more difficult than I had originally thought, but I managed to stand up straight by the time I got out the door. Khelli and Cervus were instructing me on how to strut when Del joined us in the hallway. He looked confused as to who I was until he realized it was me, then he got indignant. I bowed slightly to him and was pleased to notice that, in those shoes, I was taller than him. I smirked to myself. _I always did think he was a little short_. Del didn't look too bad. Thankfully we had come to the Capitol in the middle of a fairly benign fashion trend. He was in a dark blue multi-piece suit that got darker the closer the layers got to the skin. They had given him contacts and painted his nails. They had lined his eyes with thick, smoky eye shadow and his blue lipstick made him look deathly cold. I was wondering what they did to get him to allow the prep team near his face when they followed him into the hall. They must've threatened to dress him up like another assistant, where bright orange was the color of the day.

After another minute Jarvis, Mr. Purple-Pin, and Sheet joined us. I caught Sheet looking at me with a look that was definitely not distain for a minute, but it faded quickly. He was wearing a blue, zip-zag patterned suit, the poor guy. Mr. Purple-Pin was very happy with us and Jarvis near exploded all over the stark-white hallway. "Perfect! Wonderful! Wow, you're amazing! They'll love you! Look at that! How could they not?"

He hopped up to Del first. "Dil, boy, be tough and make sure they know you hate them." Del pressed his lips together into a razor thin line. He was going to act angry anyway, but now that Jarvis wanted him to, Del had to think of a new strategy.

"Jam!" Jarvis slid up to me next, fingers pointing everywhere. "Jammy, Jammy, Jam, Jam. Darling, doll-face, doll. Already making history. Now, go out there and be confident, but make sure you act sweet and a little embarrassed that you're all dressed up. Flirt for the cameras, but blush for the tributes. We want them to like you."

"They'll love me," I tried to keep as straight a face as possible, but hiding my glee didn't seem entirely necessary then.

Del and I were pushed forward into the elevator. We'd be smuggled into a car to take us to the stage in the City Center, the same one that would be replaced with a much grander version of itself at the Quarter Quell to compliment the new Training Center.

Del was pissy in the car. I crossed my long, glittering legs. "You look nice," I smiled.

Del's unnaturally blue eyes traced my legs and followed them up the curve of my body until he found my smile. "You look-" he hesitated, trying to think if he should be cruel or break and be nice. "Not like yourself."

I accepted his reply. "I suppose that's alright every once in the a while." I countered anyway, though. "I'm surprised you let them near your face."

Del pressed his painted lips tightly together again and I knew he wanted his make-up off more than anything else in the world. I felt sexy, where as he felt incredibly stupid and embarrassed. Not something that often happened to Del Downy. I did feel a little sorry for him, but he was a big boy. He'd handle it. Wearing lipstick on television for the interviews was not going to be his most traumatic experience that week.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7:

Twelve cars pulled up to that stage. Everyone else was already there. Gamemakers and camera crews swarmed the stage and the front rows of the audience that weren't occupied with the stylists and prep teams. The whole rest of the square was a splotchy, disjointed rainbow of colored wigs, suits, and coats that spilled all the way out into the side streets where I was sure they couldn't see.

Twenty-four tributes stepped out on that stage.

Aw, a stage. I belonged on a stage. _All eyes on me. I'll take them all_. Mad cheering had replaced the booing from previous years. Fortunately for us, this would be our only instance of public humiliation before the Games. In a few years time, the Capitol will realize their mistake and would create a few more opportunities for us, but being dressed up once for the Capitol's pleasure, our disgrace, and our families shame would do for now.

The interviews were a good opportunity to decide on whom to bet on since money had been placed on which tribute would win since the beginning of the Hunger Games. The concept of sponsors wouldn't be introduced until the 20th Hunger Games as a more entertaining and more profitable replacement for the random and spontaneous placement of additional supplies in the arena that took place in the 19th Hunger Games. The additional funding was nice, too. After the sudden influx of money from sponsorships, the Games got much more complicated and oh, so much more exciting.

I tore my eyes from our adoring audience and took a quick look at us all up on stage. We all looked like something out of the Capitol. It was customary not to stick too closely to modern fashion when decorating a tribute, since the winning tribute's outfit tended to define the next great fashion trend. So some of us looked good, some of us looked presentable, and some of us looked ridiculous. I liked the giant shoes on District 9's guy, and I remember District 11's girl's hair was combed through with flowers. We all sat down, and, most bizarre of all, we looked like we belonged there.

The interviewer could be described as little better than one of those talking robots I sometimes saw on Capitol propaganda television, and not by much. He sat rigidly. His voice was monotone. He was even dressed all in gray. Although I did feel like he was trying to turn his question: "Any last words?" into something of a catchphrase by the way he attempted to ask it a little less robotically each time.

The interviews were short, quick, and repetitive, which made them rather boring. They'll have a more interesting guy next year. What's your name? Age? Where're you from? Family? Who's your stylist? What are you looking forward to? Many kids stumbled on that question because, no matter how many times he asked it, it always seemed to come out as unexpected. What was I looking forward to? Not dying? Someone's got to die. No one really wanted to say 'I'm looking forward to dying as quickly and as painlessly as possible while retaining some of my dignity.' Or maybe something like 'I'm looking forward to attempting suicide tonight so I don't have to deal with tomorrow.' The guy from District 6 said he was looking forward to an opportunity to punch some Capitol citizens in the face. He had a wicked grin and I decided he was awesome. After being stuck on the question myself, I just said that I was looking forward to training. It became a safe answer for the kids after me to use. I say 'kids' because I'm pretty sure I was the oldest one there. I certainly looked the oldest, anyway.

When he asked me his last question, if I had any last words, I realized that the last thing I had said to my family was that boys can't volunteer for girls. No good-byes. No good-luck. Just a sharp and quick 'there's nothing you can do.' I didn't think saying I love you over the T.V. would ever be enough, but it was that or nothing, so I poured my heart out and left it on the stage, hoping that the other tributes would see it. The more I think about it, the more I think that maybe I'm the one that started strategies in the Games: faking yourself to gain an advantage. It worked and I never looked back. I even advised others on how to do it too. Because we're winners.

I was not able to be nervous during the interviews because I was straining to hear what all the other tributes were saying, attempting to detect clues as to what they really wanted to say. To be honest, I'm not supremely talented at reading people. That's not what I'm about. I can't look at a person and tell that they have deep, unresolved issues, but I can hear when they want you to ask them a question. It's not very hard, really. Questions asked in certain tones mean that what they really want is for you to ask them the same question, because they've had a really interesting day that they want to tell you about and they're only asking you how your day was so you would return the courtesy. Often, one can easily hear what the other wants to talk about, but there are things that you want to talk about too so sometimes we don't actually hear each other. People are very centrally focused. They may not be selfish, but they do like eager listeners. I was an eager listener, because these people were going to keep me alive.

I had already decided I was going to try to befriend as many of the tributes as possible, but I was trying to pick out ones that sounded like they'd be a little easier or, at least, more fun to win over than others.

My favorite response to the interview robot's last question was one from the District 7 girl, the one that Del and I had happily waved at. "Any last words?" the man asked, drawing it out and ending it with a long upward inflection. The girl turned, looked straight at the nearest camera, and answered clearly. "Words don't last." She excused herself. Cliché, but effective. Sara Thatch. Good girl. I wouldn't do right by her.

I decided the guy from 12 was awesome as well when he started answering the robot's questions in rapid-fire succession. It wasn't until the robot interviewer started asking questions that I hadn't heard asked before that I realized that Maytew, the sixteen year old male tribute from District 12 that had 3 older sisters and one younger, and had a stylist named Pinto, was testing to see how many questions the interviewer had on his clipboard. What are your parent's like? They're nice people- I love 'em. Next. Do you have any pets? No. Next. What's your weapon of choice? Pick-axe. Next. Why? The irony. Next. What are your hobbies? I smoke.

I doubt all his answer were believable, but he didn't give the interviewer a moment. When the time finally ran short and the interviewer asked Maytew if he had any last words, the boy gave an incredulous, half laughing howl. "How many questions were left?"

Our interviewer paused and counted seventeen.

"Seventeen?" the boy howled again. "How many questions were on the list in the first place?"

The interviewer answered one-hundred-and-fifty.

The boy howled again. "Who in the coal fire would write you one-hundred-and-fifty questions to ask in three minutes?" The interviewer had no idea. Maytew quickly shouted 'I love you' to his mom and the interviews were done.

* * *

There was a brief address from president Fairticket. He hadn't been president during the Dark Days and he would be replaced several times before the Capitol finally got someone who could hold the post for more than five years. Apparently being president of the known world is hazardous to your health. Thank goodness I wasn't eligible.

We stood for the anthem and then were quickly smuggled back into our cars and quickly stuffed back into our dormitories. I tested embarrassed smiles on the other tributes I passed on the way in. I walked a little awkwardly in my high heels so they looked like they were hurting and I wanted out of them more than anything. I pushed painted hair out of my face and my spine started to bend awkwardly. I heard Jarvis laugh and then Del came up behind me, grabbed me by the arm and dragged me into the elevator. "Stop hamming it up," he spat, clearly frustrated.

"I'm not hamming it up." I attempted to unstrap my shoes while balancing in the elevator, but it proved beyond my know-how. I could've figured it out, but I wouldn't let Del know that. "I don't wear high heels. They're painful and impractical." Del didn't talk to me for the rest of the evening.

We showered, we changed, and we gathered for dinner looking like our normal selves, except for the strange colored clothes. Jarvis was late, but he was laughing when he burst into the room. He leapt over the table and threw an arm around me. "Good show, Jammy. You're better than I thought you were. They all saw Adel drag you off. It was brilliant!"

Del threw his plate and it shattered against the wall just left of Jarvis' head. He then took his stylist's plate and threw that as well. Then, having gotten a better idea, he grabbed hold of the linen tablecloth and yanked the whole thing down to his feet and stormed out of the room.

The sudden crash of the plates had surprised me, but the action didn't really. I wish that I had felt that much anger at the situation as well. It might've helped me feel a bit more human.

Jarvis wasn't fazed by the attack at all. In fact, he was grinning. He whispered down to me, "I told him not to help you because it would make him seem weak and he ran right over and grabbed you. Guys are so predictable."

I sighed for him. "I know exactly what you mean."

We rewatched the interviews and I had Jarvis quiz me on the tributes' names before I turned in for the night. I wanted to make some sort of peace with Del, but after standing outside his door for twenty minutes, I gave up when I couldn't think of anything to say. Thinking was never my strong point.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8:

At breakfast the following day, Jarvis burst in with the idea that we could be dating and then it'd be an abusive relationship. Del tried to contain his rage.

"Wouldn't that make me seem weak?" I asked.

Jarvis thought on that and nodded. "Yes. Possibly. But it'd be so good." When Jarvis started salivating again, Del had to leave. I politely declined Jarvis' offer, reminding him that Del was more compatible with my original strategy. Jarvis moaned and flopped over on his chair.

To be honest, training really wasn't all that exciting. We had two days. The first day was survival training, with stations and such, and the second day would be weapons training. More than one person gave Del a nervous look, which I knew hurt him. He was use to having friends, so he avoided me as much as possible during training.

People spent different amounts of time at different stations so I tried to schedule it out so that I spent an equal amount of time at each relevant station. This allowed me to learn as much as possible, since I had a very limited repertoire of skills to draw upon that would assist me in the Games, and it put me next to new people without it looking like I was specifically seeking anyone out. I greeted everyone. I got along with some better than others. When they didn't talk to me, I didn't try to force them to, but I tried to stay attentive and helpful. Some were quite fine with the idea of talking to me. Clue from District 1 was nice and Daina was small and clingy. Jewn from 5 was standoffish. Scaf from 6 was standoffish and Ember would look at me funny. Hue and Filly from 8 were cool and we had some common ground in textiles. Sara from 7 would greet me and Pauper was just scared of everything. Basil from 11 was very polite. Glory kept to herself. And Charity from 12 was clearly intimidated by how much Maytew talked. Maytew kind of reminded me of Jarvis, except younger and with less bursting, more wit and was all together much better to be around. He had dark, almost muddy features, and could make a meal out of anything. I had him advising me as much as possible on what was edible if you tried hard enough. I knew it wasn't called 'The Hunger Games' for nothing.

I ate lunch with everyone. I was especially kind to the youngest and held my ground with the oldest until it was clear that they all wanted to like me, but fear and decency held the best of them back. There were a few groups that tried to separate themselves off from the whole of us, but there weren't really such thing as "career tributes" yet. Some went into the arena with a bit more arrogance than others, but they wouldn't shun you completely. Which was good, because if I had tried my friendship strategy in a later year, their hearts would've been too closed off and I would've died quickly. Fair winds to the kind-hearted mothers and fathers who raised us gullible fools.

Jarvis, as well as what must've been many of the other Gamemakers, came and watched us train from time to time, since rules had not yet been established to keep them out. I was surprised to see that he wasn't the loudest of the lot, but he tried. He laughed a lot and boasted to the others. I had made him promise not to give me away, but I'm sure that didn't stop him from trying to get other Gamemakers to talk their kids into getting their kids in the Game. I tried to ignore his presence as much as possible, and thankfully he didn't stick around too long.

I was very clear and frank with the instructors at the stations about what I could and could not do. I wanted the tributes to overhear that I wasn't much of threat, but was definitely not useless. I could start fires, was handy with a knife and a line. I was capable of wrestling although I was sure the bigger guys, like Malt from 9 or Post from 10, would beat me and I was hoping not to have to wrestle a girl to the ground for decency's sake. I knew a boatload about knots and rope, which made learning about snares easy enough. I returned to the edible plant station more than once, guessing that an ability to gather food would be one of my best excuses to be kept alive. I was fair to decent at spears, having harpooned enough fish in my lifetime, but I really was no expert on killing things. Gutting and cleaning, yes. Killing, no. This, again, helped me make friends. Friendly, comforting, useful, and not terribly likely to kill you. At least as far as we knew.

Each evening Jarvis would quiz me on names and Del started taking his meals in his room.

And then, suddenly, we were out of time. The sun rose and the morning came, and it was time to be packed up and shipped off to the arena.

It was dim and chilly when I awoke and despite my previous attitude, I was very bitter about my situation. I shouldn't have been there, in that room, in that city. I had been promised freedom. I survived a war and helped build the new world, but it was not a free world. And I'm only guessing, but I don't think the new world I became a part of was in any way better than the old one. At least in the old one, I could've rose to stardom without having to kill anyone or watch them die, bleed, gasp for air, cry out, see those faces of despair (in the arena or through blinking screen). As the morning dawned that final day, I found a place in my heart where I hated everything.

Then I took a breath and buried it.

We were awoken early, barely before sunrise, to loud knocks on the door. I dressed in my usual blinding blue and met Del and Jarvis and Sheet and Mr. Purple Pin in the hallway, along with Ouranos, Cervus, and Khelli and whoever the heck Del's prep team was.

We were herded down the hallway by guys with guns. Jarvis' pointy hat might've been the only thing keeping his head from exploding. "Today's the day!" He chimed and cheered. We were ushered into rooms for one final prep. Khelli was brushing my hair until it shined and Cervus was fixing my nails. Jarvis wasn't supposed to be in the room, but it's not like we could've convinced him to leave. He was sweating and twitchy, he was so excited. "Today's the day," he repeated, grinning like a schoolboy, which thankfully he wasn't. "You're going to be amazing. You are amazing! You remember all their names, now?" He didn't wait for me to answer his questions, he just jumped and kept going. I had to work very hard to hide my hatred. My whole body was tensing with the effort it took to maintain simply a neutral exterior. It felt good, in a way. I thought that maybe I could've lashed out and thrown something at Jarvis like Del had done. A dinner plate must've felt nice to throw. But no. Cervus looked up and poked me in the chest. I coughed and air rushed into my lungs and I started breathing again. The brown man smirked at me. He had antlers. Did I tell you that? Stupid brown guy from the Capitol that was doing my nails had antlers wrapped around the top of his head. It looked so stupid and impractical all of a sudden that I laughed. Everything in that damn city was stupid and impractical. And colorful. They were very colorful people.

When it was done Khelli kissed my hand. Cervus did too. Ouranos didn't do anything, which might be another reason why I didn't really like him, although he made enough of an impression that I remembered his name. I remembered all of their names for a time.

I greeted the other tributes as we were being spirited away into cars. We stalled as long as we could. I hugged them, shook hands, patted heads. Some were crying. Daina was trembling so bad, she would've collapsed into a puddle on the ground if she wasn't clinging so hard to Clue. Linkon from 2 wished me luck. Cherry from 2 wouldn't look at me. Del wouldn't look at me either. Not until we got into that flying contraption. Jarvis was left outside, cheering and shouting and crying with the rest of them. I was smirking at him again. Stupid man.

Del and I had a compartment to ourselves. It was dim and windowless, with garish yellow lighting peeping out of a circular light fixture in the ceiling. It was a small, round room with circular benches along the rim and a ceiling low enough that I probably couldn't touched it was a good jump. I didn't try, though. I just sat.

We couldn't hear anything except for the buzz of the light and a vague whiring noise that must've been from a ventilation system, and the ride was smooth so we never felt motion or had any notion that we were moving at all say for the initial shudder of take-off, if that's what it was.

Dell was glaring at me, and I had no defense so I just sat there and drank water supplied by the magically little table in the center of the room. I wanted to say something to him. I really did. But what could I have said? What could I have possibly said to this boy that wouldn't have made him want to kill me right then and there. There were times during those hours in limbo, before we got to the arena, that I thought he might kill me without provocation. I should've felt above him, but really I just felt small. And that was no good.

Our clothes for the arena were in bags on the seats. When I figured that's what they must be I stood up, got mine, and went back to my spot. Dell's eyes followed me as if perhaps he figured I was going to sneak attack him if he looked away. I tried to act as calm as possible, although I let my nervousness sneak in. I never had as many friends as Dell Downy, but I had never been glared down before. Not yet, anyway.

The uniform for the 13th Hunger games was brown and green. White lingerie and undershirt; thick and sturdy brown slacks made of some unfamiliar material (which is strange to admit as the daughter of a seamstress) that seemed like denim, or perhaps corduroy, but less stiff and more breathable; a brown, long sleeve shirt; a long, forest green sleeveless vest with a large hood that appeared water proof; some nice boots, and a pair of little black gloves. Loved it.

I laid the pieces out on the seat next to me quickly realized I didn't have anywhere to change. After a moment's hesitation I hopped up and discovered that the door we had come in was locked and there weren't any other doors. What I would've had to do if I needed to go to the bathroom, I don't want to know.

When I told Del I wanted to change, he didn't respond. He just kept glaring. The guy didn't even flinch when I asked for some privacy. "Can you at least turn your head and glare at the wall for a minute?" Unfortunately all this did was made him glare deeper, putting wrinkles in his young forehead.

I changed. Nothing was going to keep me from changing. These new clothes were going to suit me better than the electric blue ones. I tried to act indignant, like I didn't care, and it worked well enough since he couldn't see how intensely I was blushing when I turned away. We were old enough. He had seen a female body before, surely, and I had gotten a little use to being completely exposed in front of people, but I could feel his eyes burning holes in my back. He was determined to make me uncomfortable. And it worked, but I wouldn't let him know that.

When it was all done and I had folded what was left into a neat pile, I had nothing left to do. My hatred from that morning had been extinguished and now, honestly, I was left feeling depressed. Not a very fun emotion. I'd spend a good deal of my life avoiding it in the future. Feeling helpless can make a person a bit crazy.

I think Dell had meant to enter the arena hating me, to drive himself into a bitter frenzy where death would no longer matter, but in the end, after several dull hours of nothing but him glaring and my sorrowful face, growing more anxious the closer we got to our final destination, part of Del must've realized that he wasn't that type of guy. Jarvis was right. He didn't have it in him.

"Sorry we didn't get to make that necklace." He had stopped glaring and was simply looking at my throat and I wasn't sure if he was being sincere or if he was trying to inspire some sympathy in me. I decided it didn't really matter. "Look, Del." I found my voice after several hours of complete, echoing silence, although it took several tries to get a proper sentence out. "Can- We should- I- Can we at least agree in a fair fight between us?"

He was starring through me as his hand found his woven necklace and started clinking the shell back and forth like he had on the train. For some reason, that made me feel awful. "I mean- you know- I- This has been really weird and I know- I just don't want any backstabbing, you know? That sounds awful, but I really don't want to pretend to be your friend."

His hand stopped moving and he met my eyes again, but this time without the glare, although I felt that those lines were set in his forehead forever now.

"I either want to be your friend or- I promise I won't pretend to be your friend and then betray you or anything. I just want that. That little bit of honesty. Is that alright? Can we do that, at least?"

I don't think he trusted me. He looked at me too long, weighing his options, and whatever part of me that still cared for this doomed, handsome young man sank and sobbed. But he agreed. "Okay," he said.

I stood and extended my hand. "Shake on it."

After a delay he stood and shook my hand. I later realized that that was the first time I had ever touched him. And the last. Strange thought.

I sat down quickly and Dell picked up his bag of clothes. Oddly enough, the tension had lifted. He dumped out his clothes and then glanced over at me. "Don't look."

I chuckled and hid my bright red face in my hand.

And I tried not to cry.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9:

The next thing I remember is waking up on the floor. My guess was that some sort of gas had been leaked into the whirring ventilation system when we got close to our final destination. The back of my neck ached. I thought it was because I slept on it funny. I wouldn't find out for years, when it was accidentally reveled to me, that there was a tracking device in it. They'd tell me I'd risk being paralyzed from the neck down if I removed it and I'd tell them that I didn't care and they'd take it out.

I was just coming out my delirium when I noticed I was being dragged. We were hoisted onto floating stretchers, led in a row down a long, wooden box of hallway, and dumped into little wooden rooms. When I was conscious enough to look around, I found myself in little better than a crate I could stand in. It was big enough that I could've laid down, but I knew I wasn't going to be in there for long. We were in the arena. Light was peering in through cracks in the makeshift holding cells. I had seen these on the television before, from the outside where there were floating cameras.

We were all in a row, in our own crate, waiting for an announcement that would tell us that we were in crates. When the time came, the crates would open, all at once, like gates for dog races. And we would run like our lives depended on it.

I could hear the people in the crates next to me. Adel was waking up on one side. Tezer on the other. I wouldn't want to be around when Tezer was let loose. From the sounds of it, when he started to realize where he was, he started tearing at the walls, which weren't built to be the sturdiest things in the world, since this wooden arrangement was meant to be carted off once we had cleared the area.

I could hear some of them crying. They just woke up in a box. If it wasn't for the light breaking in, one might've thought that she was buried alive. Maybe that would've hurt less.

We had to wait for everyone to wake up before the announcement would play over the invisible loud speaker, so I shook myself and was preparing to run for a good hour. The air smelled clean, and I could hear animals. There would be woods, I was sure. And animals meant a water source. I could survive this, I told myself. I had to keep moving, keep checking the cracks in the gate, keep whispering to Dell to see if he was awake, or else I knew I'd start thinking about the fact that I was in a box and was about to die. Can't think. Can't think here. Not now.

I asked Dell what he could see. He said trees. I told Dell that I was running. I wasn't waiting for him. He didn't want me to. Part of me wanted to throw in that I loved him, but no. That would've been just a little too melodramatic. I had taste.

The Head Gamemaker: Fourway's voice came over the loud speaker. The crying lessened as the children perked up to hear. He told us to fight well, and that the last one standing could go home. He didn't wish us strength, or luck, or favorable odds. No hope for us, just a mad desire to go home. He could take us home. We just had to put on a good show, a better show than everyone else. He made it sound like if we could just win, we'd never have to think about this again. But that wasn't true. He was a good liar, though. We believed him, then. That's why he was the Head.

There was a buzzer and the gates flew open. Blinded by the sudden light, I bolted out that door as fast as I could. In front of us was an open field, short grass slick with morning dew. There were trees around the edge of the field, but they were still far away. In the very middle, where we were pointed, was a pile of supplies. They were just in a pile, some in crates, some scattered about. There wouldn't be a Cornucopia until the first quarter quell where that whole chariot, gladiator theme took over. They liked that theme.

I wasn't the fastest, but I had long legs and I didn't slip on the grass. I aimed straight for the prize and grabbed whatever I could while in mid motion. I clambered over the left side of the structure, so as to avoid the tributes on either side of me. I pretended not to see them. Not to hear them. There was screaming already. I got a bag, another bag, a knife, first aid kit, rope, and ran. I clamped those supplies as tight to my body as I could and I ran in a straight line for those woods. I tried not to hear them behind me. Forty feet in, I diverted to the left and didn't look back.

Leslie, Jewn, Hue and Filly, Tine, Basil, and Maytew all dead in fifteen minutes. Daina died that evening. Poor thing must've gotten lost.

I kept to myself the first day. Meeting up with someone else was out of the question. Even I, with my friendship strategy, was so filled with fear and adrenaline that I would've wrecked anyone that got anywhere near me. I had to organize my supplies. I needed a safe place to organize my supplies. What's a safe place? I thought that maybe I could find a beach, but then I thought better of that, since a beach and open water would be much too exposed. _Come on, instincts, come on. Where can I go? Left. Left is good. Up. No one wants to go up. Find some water. Find a water source. Find a tree._ There were a great many pine trees where I was running. Old pines. They were thick enough to climb, but they looked sticky with sap. I was not looking for sticky. I tried to remember what I had been taught about tree identification. I think I passed some firs. Definitely evergreens. Oaks. I wanted to find an oak for no other reason then I knew what an oak was. I needed some familiarity, something to act as a haven, but I couldn't find it yet. I wasn't far away enough.

The arenas back then weren't all that big, usually just a mile or two in diameter. We wouldn't survive that long and there was only so much money since there were no sponsors yet, so usually they picked an area with some sort of gimmick to make up for the limited surface area and set us loose. No complicated natural disasters and special effects yet to draw the tributes together, just inevitability. They'd stir up a little fire if no one was moving at all, but usually they could just let us be for the next week or so.

I got to the edge of the arena eventually. It had been early when we started, early enough for dew. It was about mid afternoon by the time I found the wall, and the sun didn't look like it would stay up for long. The boundary was the usually giant, electrified wall. It was set up along a long, metal fence, which wasn't as tall as the trees so, of course, I did the smart-ass thing of trying to see if I could climb up a tree and over the wall. However, once I got up there and hucked a stick at the electrified invisible force field, I decided that there was no way I was getting over that wall. Even if I could, where would I go? I didn't belong out there. I'd probably die in the arena, but I definitely die if I tried to leave it. This would prove to be part of an even worse cruel irony later.

I could see the whole arena from up in that tree. It was about 2 miles in diameter, one's field of vision if she was standing up in a rowboat, lost at sea. However, since I was not in a rowboat, but way up in a tree, the arena didn't look very big at all. It looked disturbingly transversable.

We were in a temperate zone. There was the electrified wall around the outside and I could see almost all of it, except what was blocked by trees. Part of the arena was raised up on a bit of a hill and part sunk down a bit in a half bowl of a valley. There were strange rocky out-croppings and cliffs that isolated some parts of the small arena from others. There were no beaches or large bodies of water, but a small river and various streams could be seen crisscrossing the wood. Getting water would not be an issue, however there would be limited amounts of game. I wondered for a moment how the water was getting in and if there'd be fish there.

The battle over the supply depot looked to be over. There were tiny figures moving about in an unrushed manner, opening crates and sorting supplies and such. There was a lot of red, which I tried not to think about. I wouldn't know how many had died until that evening, when they announce how many are left. I wouldn't know who had died until I got out of that place. Who killed who. Which ones were me.

The supply depot was in the middle of one half of the giant, rounded box oval shaped arena. The center point of the other half, and the gimmick of this area, was an old town, by the look of it. I could see the outline of crumbling stone foundations, and rotting wood. The gimmick amused me then, but I would wonder later who had lived in this town before and what had happened to them. Maybe there had been a settlement there before the rebellion. I wouldn't think of this in time to ask about it.

I could see bits of movement from where I was sitting: underbrush moving, trees swaying and so forth, and I realized that with the arena being so small, there was a fairly good possibility that the other tributes will be able to see where the others are from similar tree tops. So the key would be movement. For the moment, however, I was done with movement. I took a minute to map out what I could see of the other tributes below, then I picked a rocky outcrop that looked like it'd be good to hide in. Before descending from my tree, I looked through my packs. It wasn't the easiest thing to do balancing in a tree, but I managed.

The larger bag, much to my dismay, was stuffed full of Capitol newspaper. Pages and pages of crumpled, brightly colored pieces of tabloid. It was really not what I was hoping for. I almost threw it away as junk when I discovered a big box of 'strike anywhere' matches in a plastic bag in the front pocket. I'll admit that at first I was more excited about the plastic bag than the matches. I did always love watertight containers. Surprise of surprises, the pack also had a long plastic bag stuffed in it that looked like it had once held a rolled up newspaper. So at least I had matches and tinder and a piece of plastic. And I could always stuff my vest with the paper if it got really cold. I was enthused and felt much better about my bag of crap. The second bag had a lot more useful things in it, mainly food. I had picked up a small pack of dried fruit, crackers and carbs wrapped in plastic, and salted meat. I was both extremely excited that I had food, and a little terrified that I hadn't thought to actively grab food from the supply depot originally. I clutched the small bag to my chest and thanked those horrid, horrid Gamemakers for its existence.

I ran through what I should do next very quickly in my head. I had been running all day and hadn't eaten or had water. I had equipment for fire and first aid. I had a few days of food, no water and debatably little to carry water in. I had some rope and I had a knife. I examined the knife. It was a good knife with a nice little serrated hunting blade. Perhaps not the best for combat, but would do quite nicely for preparing food. However, since I was currently less worried about food and more worried about combat at the moment, I decided to fashion a spear.

I packed up everything into the larger bag, slung the rope around my shoulders and descended from the tree. After a couple dozen minutes of nervous searching, gnawing on a piece of dried jerky, I found myself a decent shaft. Thankfully pine trees grew rather straight. I knew perfectly well how to bind a blade to a stick with a good piece of twine so in another ten minutes of unwinding and rewinding part of the rope, I had a spear and decided to make for my prospective camp site.

I was worried about the water, and I was a little worried about the food. I knew I'd be alright for a little while, but I was fairly sure I was not going to be any good if it came to a fight, which was bound to happen eventually. The arena was too small and there were too many of us. Something was bound to go wrong.

I tread as softly as I could, but I was practically full-grown and I wasn't a slight girl. No proper fisherman's daughter was. I thought of maybe setting up some snares, catch some animals. I was good with animals. I could skin and prepare them. Even if I didn't eat them myself, I could offer them to others as a peace offering. Maybe poison the bastard.

Poison. That was something I hadn't thought about before. I learned with plants were toxic, of course, during the survival training, and I knew what parts of an animal were less preferable to eat. I could poison a peace offering. Of course, I also thought that these kids aren't dumb. Some will trust me but there will probably be others that will want me to try it first. I'd have to be careful. Maybe if I poisoned one, but left the other. But of course, I was getting ahead of myself. I hadn't even caught anything yet. I was picking through thick underbrush, thinking about how getting too far ahead of one's self could be dangerous, when I stumbled into my first opponent.


End file.
